Poetry

1 The girl who martyred her dolls, sending them To heaven to wait for her arrival, Sentenced them to stones or fire or the force Of her hands to tear them, methods she’d learned From the serious, dark nuns who taught her. She would press a pillow over my face To encourage sainthood. “Now,” she…

Starts in estuary                   whelm and whirl of rock-skin,          sea-swell, the hove called salt.                            I loved the hero-to-be,                            his life first arrowed unto me,                                     scudding, spared, still                                     unconscious.                            No                                     he and she to wash                   away yet, my inhale planked to his ex—.                            Plus our everywhere wet…

The way, at last, a sloop goes sailorless and bobs at the dock, swathed in darkness, the way waves swell and, swelling, slay themselves— water, whatever you want, I want to want that. A nickel’s in the till, then it’s not, it’s in a pocket, forgotten, and the pocket’s in a laundry chute. A puddle’s…

The song of someone like me begins on the penny whistle. A few notes, just a few, up and down. The bass line comes in, then the lead and second guitar. Brushstrokes on the snares. And then the singer, Lord, then the singer steps up. What voice could slip this backdrop? Only the rise and…

If memory were easy, I wouldn’t care for it: Not the poorest truth, the hard-won winter Darling, without a single trick of light or Cloud light-burred and blurred for light green Air to play on. Worse the flirty silliness: The soft, lost summer lies. The hedonist Inheritance: Pressed like a nymph to faun On flesh…

What matters is how you disagree with me, not the smooth surfaces of your appeasements. Let snow melt off the statues, parks come and go like seasons. See the park in snow see my hands rough from snow fingers red and stiff and remember the past when they begin to thaw filling with pain they…

Dispatched with a worn brush, the cursive writing of poet Xaian Shu possessed heroic spirit. His calligraphy’s balanced characters pointed to diligent study. Scholar, poet, Mi Fu’s idiosyncratic running characters wrote of living in peaceful times before the Mongols roared down from the north. His writing was described as a “sailboat in a gust of…

Kids in the Dumb Class weren’t allowed to enroll for French So instead we learned the difference between ser and estar. A yellow-haired midget father in a white suit cursed me for being In his family tent-yard, where I had wandered. He was my size. All a misunderstanding, we weren’t that stupid. I was earning…

Flying over many states, driving through many streets, I come to The Chapel in the Pines, where a film of your life shows our trunks bunched in at the crotch as we take turns burying each other in the sands of Far Rockaway, each standing by a mound, like archeologists discovering tombs, tombs of their…